Hello, This Is
by Gosangoku
Summary: Maybe it's a bad idea for me to work at a suicide hotline when I'm only really hiding my own problems... - Arthur/Merlin


**h e l l o,  
>t h i s<br>i s**

**{ _g o s a n g o k u_ }**

**prologue – (the) king's cross**

**x.**

**Summary – **_It might be stupid of me to work on a suicide hotline when I'm only really hiding my problems, but I hate the thought of people being unhappy._  
>Merlin works at an anonymous suicide hotline and spends most of his time trying to help others and trying to hide all of his issues. It's a day like any other – dull, bleak, and pointless – when someone calls in and he finds himself less hopeless than before.<p>

**Overall rating – **M

**Chapter rating** – T for sensitive topics

**Warnings – **Self-harm, mental health problems, possible suicide attempts or at least mentioned ones

**x.**

I don't know why I engage in self-destructive things. I _know_ what I'm doing, and I know that it's wrong, but that doesn't stop me from doing it. I like to think I'm a responsible person – I never skip university, I've never done drugs, and I've only been drunk once thanks to someone who is oftentimes my best friend and occasionally my worst.

I study Psychology and English Literature, the former of which could be both ironic and fitting. I help others, and I'm willing to do so, don't get me wrong, but I just… have problems with helping myself. I'd rather not compare myself to fourteen year old teenagers who self-diagnose because of their 'werewolf' time of month, but being aware of all of the signs and symptoms of mental disorders—and God, I loathe the words _mental disorders_ and _mental illnesses_—I think it's relatively clear that I'm not one hundred percent healthy.

Nobody knows, of course. I'd probably be forced to see a counsellor by my university, which wouldn't work. I know it wouldn't. I had to have one during high school, but I can't stand the thought of pushing my problems onto someone else's shoulders, whether or not they'd care, because I'm so abnormally and unconventionally terrified at the prospect of making someone so miserable that they'd leave me. Maybe I'm paranoid, but in light of past events… maybe I'm not.

Working at a suicide hotline is probably a really bad idea, knowing all of that. Quoting Lewis Carroll, I give myself very good advice, but very seldom follow it. I don't let my own issues affect my work though. I wouldn't let somebody die, not if I could help it. Not again. It's not only for selfless reasons though, I have to confess. It's true that I want people to live well and prosper, but I just feel compelled to save people, I suppose. I'm not into martyrdom – no, that's another form of suicide in itself. I think this job is more from guilt than self-sacrifice. But maybe that's the same thing.

It always hurts to hang up on someone after they shakily tell you that they think they'll be all right. You never really know if they will be, and I always find myself wondering if they just went through with it and I was useless, or if they honestly got through at least a night without reaching for a knife or pills—

What's worse than hanging up after that though, is when someone does it to you. No promises, as edgy as they are, no vague _I'll call back sometime_, not anything. They just go silent, the line goes dead, and you wonder if they are too. It makes me wonder how doctors and surgeons feel, hearing the heartbeats of patients stop, staring down at the blood on their hands. Even if they're trained for it, to expect death, they're only human. I might become too attached too easily, but I don't think anyone can be so empty and cold-hearted that it wouldn't give them trouble sleeping at night wondering what they could have done to rescue someone.

I slowly lowered the phone, staring at it morosely, and prayed to a god that I'm not sure I even believe in that they'll cope, that someday they'll do more than just cope, and then it rang again. I answered immediately, trying to put that sobbing girl to the back of my mind.

"Hello, this is Merlin."

There was a pause, and then, "…Merlin? Is – Are you joking?"

That always catches people off guard. "Unfortunately not," I replied with a feigned long-suffering sigh. "My mum's a bit… Well, she has a thing for history. And mythology. And weird names. I think I inherited it, actually. I called my puppy Aithusa."

Another short silence. "Does that name actually exist?"

"Not according to Microsoft Word. I like it though."

"You would, if your name is Merlin." He scoffed.

I rolled my eyes. "Yes, you've reached the teasing level of bullies in primary school. Well done. What's your name, then?" Usually I was chastised for acting so casual, but it worked better for some people than me treating them like china dolls about to shatter into a million pieces. Even if someone did feel fragile, it was rare that they liked being called on it, pulled apart by prying words even more than they were tearing themselves apart. I didn't like being vulnerable either, and I didn't imagine this guy did.

"I'd… rather not say."

I blinked before smiling, even though he couldn't see it. "That's fine," I said, "but even if you were actually Lady Gaga or—or the King of England, I wouldn't know."

"I doubt I'd sound like myself if I were either of those people, Merlin. Particularly Lady Gaga."

"Well, I don't know. I've not met either of them in person. Not that I'd really like to. I'm terrible with first impressions. I often get myself into fights, which mostly consist of me being chased around London."

He chuckled slightly. It was weak, but he'd obviously not been crying. Curious. I was glad though, for whatever reason. "You don't sound like the type of bloke who'd get into fights."

"I don't intend to!" I exclaimed, ducking my head and lowering my voice when a few less distracted co-workers glared warningly at me. "I just – I give off the wrong impression. I'm not sure what that is. I suppose I'm sort of like Peter Parker – you know, skinny and bookish, but I stand up to people. And they usually hate it. I only really fight back if I have to."

He snorted. "You really don't sound like you _could_."

"Shut up, you prat."

"Can you call your callers prats?"

"I'll make an exception for you."

"I'm honoured."

"You shouldn't be."

"_You_ shouldn't be talking to me that way."

"Why?" I asked airily. "Who do you think you are? You really are the king of England?"

"Not quite," he answered, sounding both smug and tense, and he was hedging, but I knew not to push. "But let me tell you something, _Merlin_…" His voice lowered to something in between a teasing hiss and a threatening whisper, "I could take you apart in _one blow_."

I swallowed thickly at that, unconsciously licking my lips. Only because they were chapped thanks to the bloody winter weather. I should get more tea. "Yeah?" I replied, thankful that my voice wasn't quite as uncertain as I'd just felt. "I could take you apart in less than that."

He laughed again, abandoning the pretence of quiet menace, and I rolled my eyes at the obnoxious sound. But when I caught my reflection in the dark screensaver of my notebook laptop, I saw myself smiling. Then I laughed quietly too, and he stopped as if only just realising he'd been doing it.

"Well, er – Merlin," he said, sounding awkward and stiff and oddly formal again. "I… suppose I'd best explained why I called."

"People generally do," I agreed, trying to sound nonchalant. "You don't have to say anything you don't want to, but really – I'm a stranger and I don't know who you are. I can't use any of this against you, and I can hardly judge someone who I can't even put a face to. And even if I did, it wouldn't really matter; I'm a stranger to you too." I paused, anxiously trailing my fingers in patterns on the table before me. Nervous habit. "Sometimes, it's easier to be honest with people you don't know. Maybe they'll be more honest since they don't know you well enough to console you properly."

"All right, all right, you don't have to give me a speech from those bloody Japanese cartoons," he grumbled, but sounded a bit less uptight than before.

"I find them inspiring," I retorted easily. "And they're called animes."

"Inspiring? What, you want eyes that take up two thirds of your face?"

"I'd rather that than my ears taking up about that much of my face…"

He went quiet for a moment, before breathing a soft chuckle. "Are they really that big?"

"Yes," I mumbled miserably. "They're horrible. Thankfully, you can't see me so you can't make fun of me too much. This is why anonymity is good, like I said."

"You sound like a teenage girl with self-esteem issues."

"It's not like only _girls_ have problems with self-doubt," I said.

"Mm," he agreed after a moment, and I wondered where his mind took him. I think everybody doubts themselves sometimes. It's only human. Everyone makes mistakes, but it's hard to accept that sometimes, especially when society insists on perfection. He took a breath, drawing me from my thoughts again. "I'm… angry." He sounded embarrassed to admit that. Actually, he sounded _ashamed_. But I knew that the generic _You Shouldn't Feel Bad For What You Feel_™ speech wouldn't really help.

"Why?"

I was accustomed to long silences. They took up large amounts of times on these calls, broken up mostly by crying and fragmented words that resembled the poetry style of E. E. Cummings in my head. "My father," he finally said, sounding exceptionally reluctant as if it was really difficult just to say those words.

"Did you argue?"

"We always argue," he muttered bitterly, inhaling deeply and pausing again. "He approves of _nothing_ I do. Nothing is right. _I'm_…not right."

I pursed my lips. "Do you think that?"

"…It's – Yes. Sort of."

"Why do you think you're… 'not right'?"

The silence lasted longer this time. "I… can't say."

"All right," I agreed easily. "Can you tell me about your argument with your father?"

"It wasn't – it's not a big issue. We fight all the time. It's just… It gets tiring. I'm sick of shouting – shouting at the top of my lungs, and even then he doesn't seem to hear a _word _I say." He grunted and there was a crash in the background.

"Did you throw something?" I asked cautiously.

"I tend to when I'm irritated," he admitted, not sounding put off.

"Glad I'm not there for your target practice," I said. He exhaled something that could've been a broken laugh. "So, he doesn't listen?"

"Yes. No. I – Bugger, I don't know. Maybe he does and he just doesn't _get it_, or don't care to listen."

"Have you ever tried speaking to him? Like, asking him to talk with you calmly – you know, one on one?"

"I've tried to get him alone, but whenever I do, all I get is, 'I'm _busy_, son'. He's been busy my whole life. He probably blames me for—" He cut himself off, probably thinking he'd revealed too much.

"Something you don't want to mention," I finished gently. He agreed with a small grunt. "Well, honestly, I'm – I'm not sure what advice to give you, but—"

"It's fine. I wasn't really searching for answers. I just – I needed to vent."

"I never mind listening." He didn't say anything, but I wondered if he'd have smiled at me if I saw him at that moment. "I was going to say—without trying to unload my past on you or anything, just so you don't feel – just—anyway, I was going to say that… I can't really relate. I can't _empathise_ because I've never really had what you do."

"A Darth Vader-esque father?"

I laughed quietly. "Well, that," I said weakly. "And, um… Well, a dad in general, really," I finished awkwardly, feeling guilt rise in my throat like bile for telling someone that – someone who called me to tell me _their _problems, and— "I don't… remember him. What he looked like, what he acted like, if… if he l—cared about me. I like to think he would have…" _But I can't really bring myself to believe it. _"I have a mum though. She's – she's brilliant, really. I've never really fought with her, except for once, but that was mostly because of how I was acting and I was acting that way because of… stuff I wasn't ready to tell her. But, erm… even when I was fighting with her, and she was pretty much the only person in my life at the time, I knew she still… loved me. So just – even when people disapprove of what you do and it's unfair, they may not necessarily hate you for it. Maybe they're just… finding it hard to accept."

He was silent for a long time after that, and I chewed on my lip and tugged at dust and cat fur on my jeans. "I suppose so," he eventually conceded. He sounded guarded, like he was hiding something, or maybe a whole cave of secrets, but he also sounded a bit less brusque. Just a bit. But I didn't think he was the type of person to tear his walls down for anyone. "Just so you know, I – I wasn't going to… kill myself tonight," he murmured, a lot quieter, and I had to strain to hear him over the constant murmurs and reassurances of the people around me. "I just felt… not like giving up, I never feel like that, but – like I'd… lost a battle or something. I'm not the type to surrender though, not even to myself."

I smiled slightly at that. _That makes one of us_, I thought ruefully, feeling a bit more vulnerable after his admission. God, I – "I wish I was brave enough not to give into myself." I winced when I said that, and then hurriedly continued, "I'm glad – not that you feel bad, obviously, but that you called and that your prattish nature won't allow you to give up."

He gave his funny almost-laugh again and paused before sighing, like he'd given up on saying something. "Yeah. Thank – It was…"

"You're welcome," I said, trying not to laugh. Pride makes fools of us all, I guess. "Take care."

"Yes, er… you too."

I rarely hung up first, so I listened to the faint static on the line and heard rustling as he moved.

"My name is Arthur, by the way."

My eyes widened and I smiled. "That's brilliant! My mum would love you just for that, you know. She'd probably dress us up – you in knight's armour and me in wizarding robes or something."

"You'd be a Hufflepuff."

"Merlin's too old for Hogwarts, isn't he? Harry Potter says _Merlin_ instead of _God_, you know. I'm like the wizarding god."

Arthur snorted. "No, the original Merlin was. You're just a Hufflepuff whose mother named him something he'd be teased for."

"At least my dorms would be near the kitchens."

"And you could bring food up to Gryffindor tower for me."

"I'm not very good at taking orders."

"What if I _was_ the king of England?"

"I'd say that you're a _royal_ prat."

"I'd have you beheaded."

"No, you wouldn't," I replied confidently, even if the image of my waiting for my death came to the forefront of my mind like it did at night. "You're a Gryffindor, they're not the ones who are particularly good finders."

"I'm sure I'd always find you, Merlin," he said, sounding amused. I hid a smile behind my hand again. "I do have to go though. So, er… Goodbye, Merlin."

"Bye, Arthur." I fidgeted, somehow morose at the thought of not hearing from him again. Usually, after calls, I felt miserable and worthless as I listened to dejected people telling me it was hopeless and hanging up, but Arthur – I'd almost forgotten how hollow I'd felt all day when I was talking to him. Maybe I just missed it – the casual banter and jokes, light conversation instead of discussions of death and new ideas for my masochistic mind. Maybe I missed Will…

"I'll be okay," he suddenly added.

And I found myself hoping for that to be true. "You'd better be."

"Bye, Merlin."

"See you, Arthur."

Two more seconds, and then he hung up. I listened to the consistent beep a moment afterwards, feeling the familiar loneliness creep back in again, and a cold shiver ran up my spine. I lowered the phone down and sighed, running a hand through my hair, and glanced at the clock. I always felt guilty for leaving, knowing that people's lives were more important than my sleep, which I rarely got anyway. But my boss always shook his head and said, "Merlin, I've seen three therapists in my life, and all of them have told me that you have to put _yourself_ first. If you can't look after yourself, you can't help anyone else. Superheroes can afford to be self-sacrificing, but we can't."

Sliding my slightly beat up but still prized laptop into my bag along with my faulty phone that turned itself off, I slung my bag over my shoulder and departed with a little wave to the other workers, even though they probably wouldn't see me. I never spoke to any of them really – nobody here really conversed. They came to work, to ensure people lived, and sometimes forgot to do so themselves. I slipped out, unnoticed as always, and into the pouring rain and grey London skies.

I wondered if Arthur was looking at the same one.

**x.**

**_Merlin_ does not belong to me, but I am a Hogwarts student.  
>(I don't own <em>Harry Potter<em> either though. Obviously.)**

**Hello! All right, first of all, I apologise if this is out of character at all. Both Arthur and Merlin have mental health disorders in this story (and like Merlin, I'm not altogether too fond of the term myself), but I want to try and maintain their canon personalities too. They need help but are both unwilling to admit it to themselves and others, and they both have a tendency to help others but not themselves. I think many can empathise with that really.**

**I've never worked at any hotline like this before, and nor have I called one, although I do keep track of certain numbers to call if necessary. Here's a list of numbers to call, although these are US and UK based only: ****http : / / forum. deviantart. com / community / life / 797111 /**** If you'd like help finding hotlines or places to contact and you don't reside in either of those countries, I don't know of any as of yet, but I would be happy to help look for some.**

**(By the way, the title is supposed to be a little play on words. King's Cross is the station used to get a train to Hogwarts, but due to Merlin comparing Arthur to the king, it's also referencing that. Fun stuff!)**

**Take care. xo**


End file.
